Work Text:
It was really cold out; the kind of weather that wants you to stay home all through the night.
Childe was lounging on the couch, scrolling through tinder and narrowing his eyes over each individual. He honestly just wanted to get laid, but he didn't want to go through all the trouble with strangers. His last date got so drunk that she vomited all over the bed, which he had to clean for a whole week.
He sighed, seeing no one of interest, and dropped his arm to the floor. His phone thumped against the carpet. The holidays are going to be so boring this year. Childe was invited to multiple plays by his scholarly friends, to parties by his drunkard friends, and even to gatherings by his hipster friends. Despite being the most sought after, he talked shit about them all. Social interaction made it easy to get jobs, get a good reputation, and everything good in life. He never missed an opportunity to reap the benefits.
A charismatic life is a life worth living.
Suddenly the door slammed open and a gust of wind blew in. Some snow drifted onto the floor. Childe lifted his head to see a bundled-up figure, completely smothered by a large scarf, outrageous hat, and coat that nearly overlapped over the legs. A groan erupted from the figure and quickly the person unraveled themselves.
Out peeked Scaramouche's head with a deep scowl and pure frustration written all over his face, trying to get out of his winter clothes. When he is left with one layer of clothes, he slams the winter coat and scarf down to the floor. He storms off to the kitchen, where Childe hears him opening and closing the refrigerator.
"Uh, you good, Scaramouche?"
"Stop talking."
Childe shifted in his chair. He leaned his head back over the couch arm, hanging back to see Scaramouche chugging down a coca-cola. It was in a bottle, so the soda drained from it quickly, all in one go. When he was done, he slammed the bottle down and let out an exasperated sigh.
"Want to talk about it?"
Scaramouche came back into the living room, scoffed at him, and headed towards his room. "You can eat shit." And with that, the door slammed shut. Childe rolled his eyes and went over to the kitchen, sweeping up his phone and looked over at the counter. Next to Scaramouche's bottle, there was a note. He picked it up and flipped it over, revealing a kiss mark with the message: thank you for the gift! It was signed by Signora.
Childe looked out, went over to Scaramouche's door, and knocked confidently. "Go away!" Scaramouche called out angrily behind the door.
"You gonna tell me about what kind of gift you gave Signora?"
There was no sound for a moment. The sudden shift of a bed creaking and loud, footsteps approaching filled the air. Scaramouche swung the door open, looked straight at Childe's hand, and snatched the note. When standing together, Scaramouche was just barely at Childe's chest.
"Didn't anyone tell you not to snoop through people's stuff?"
"You gonna answer what I asked?"
"It's none of your business!"
"Aw, c'mon," he smirked and leaned against the doorframe. "Signora's pretty hot. Don't think you're her type though." He juts his chin over to the note in his head. "Maybe I'm wrong?"
Scaramouche rolled his eyes. "I was thanking her for a favor she did for me."
"Favor?"
"Yes! I had a problem with that Fischl girl the other day where she lectured my ear off, so I thought I'd gift her something for Christmas."
Childe raised an eyebrow. "That all?"
Scaramouche growled and closed the door, leaving Childe alone again. He raised his arms to the back of his head, sauntered off, and went back onto the couch. As he laid there, he thought about how he'd actually never seen Scaramouche on a date before. Did he even have sex? Childe bit down on his lip, just thinking.
Come to think of it, Scaramouche wasn’t very nice to anyone. Especially to Childe. For a second, he felt jealous that Signora got a gift from him at all. Even when Childe did things for Scaramouche, his best way of expressing gratitude was through a mumbled “thank you” with him walking off. He thought about what a kind Scaramouche would be like.
. . .
The next time Childe got the chance to talk to Scaramouche he was actually asleep at his desk. He barely made a sound as he slept with the occasional sighs. Childe looked over to what Scaramouche was possibly doing before he passed out and noticed two large books open and his laptop dying.
Apparently, he had been doing a research assignment.
Childe put his hands on his hips, leaned down, and read over his work. Scaramouche had a penchant for old vernacular. He wrote sophistically as a default, and Childe came to this conclusion because next to his assignment, he had two more small windows for word documents contain poetry. He even wrote a short story about the ancient Greeks. When Childe flipped the mousepad, he noticed the internet was open to a documentary about ancient civilization in China.
"Stop... don't do that."
Childe flinched and jerked back, looking over at Scaramouche, who was actually still asleep. Relieved, he decided to stop snooping. He smiled as he looked at Scaramouche in his current state. He was peaceful to look at.
Childe walked over to Scaramouche's bed, stripped the plush blanket that was given to him by their mutual friend, and placed it over him gently. Not wanting to overstay, he looked at him one last time to make sure he didn't wake him then left the room.
Scaramouche opened one eye slightly, looking towards the door, before going back to sleep.
. . .
For the two days, the two had each other. Childe lounged in the living room like normal to watch some television. His leg swung and lazily hung over the armchair. Scaramouche came out, holding a cup of ramen noodles. He avoided slurping and making a mess as he ate it with chopsticks. "You're allowed to be a degenerate every now and then," Childe smirked, not moving his head but looking at Scaramouche. When he walked over, he was barely taller than Childe laying down.
Childe felt inexplicably happy being like this. Scaramouche stopped in front of him, glaring with tired eyes and some noodles hanging from his mouth. He slowly ate it, sucking them in and biting nimbly. "Why would I practice being you?"
Childe laughed, throwing the couch pillow at him. Scaramouche deflected it and turned away, but not until Childe caught the slight smile curved at the corner of his lips. For a lot of people within our inner circles, not many people like Scaramouche.
You were better off being strangers to him if you wanted to enjoy his company. He can be nice and polite as a courtesy gesture, but he hated being nice to people who irritated him in any way. And there were a lot of ways to irritate him. Scaramouche just hated dealing with stupid.
Childe glanced over at him from the corner of his eye. He was sitting on the couch cross-legged, and his cup was placed on his knee. He was watching the TV with a vacant stare, mindlessly soaking up the episode Childe was on.
For some reason, he really liked seeing him there. They'd been living together for only a couple of months, so it's not like he hadn't ever sat down next to him. Both of them were managers, but Scaramouche was the only one in school. He was finishing up his degree in political science.
Childe looked over his face, noticing all of its features and thinking about how Scaramouche barely has any blemishes. Childe gets the occasional pimple and patch of acne that he tries to fight off to maintain a perfect face, but Scaramouche was effortlessly charming to look at.
"Don't think I don't notice you staring at me," Scaramouche said, after downing some noodles. He glances over at him, scowling. "If you have something to say, say it."
Childe fumbled. "U-uh. No. I was just thinking."
Scaramouche raised an eyebrow. "Of what?" He leaned down and takes another bite of his noodles.
"How cute you are."
Scaramouche coughed, nearly choking on the noodles he had just now inhaled. He pulled back and raised his hand to his mouth, clearing his throat. He closed his eyes, shaking his head and groaned. Childe nearly got up to go pat him on the back, but Scaramouche raised his other hand at him as if to say, 'stop.'
"Are you stupid? Did you seriously sit there and call me cute?"
Childe shrugged, smiling coyly. "Yeah? And? You're cute. I'm sure any girl would be lucky to have you."
"You're awfully interested in my love life for whatever reason lately," Scaramouche said coldly.
"When was the last time you went on a date?"
Scaramouche paused. An awkward silence began to brew. Before Childe could change the subject, Scaramouche placed his cup down onto his armrest. "I don't go on dates. No one interests me."
"Never been on one?"
"Nah. I don't know. Girls can be so stupid sometimes. I feel nothing for them."
Childe blinked. "So," he started which caused Scaramouche to look over at him. "What kind of guys are you into?"
Scaramouche grabbed the pillow Childe threw earlier and slammed it over at Childe's face. Childe barely caught it so he felt the soft texture collide with his face as it was in his hands. "You think you're so funny."
"No! I mean it! I mean... it makes sense."
"How on Earth does that make sense? I've never expressed interest in men."
"Then what do you like?"
"I don't know."
Childe noticed the distraught in his face, so he didn't press any further. Scaramouche looked soft, vulnerable even. He was watching the television now, not even eating his noodles anymore.
Scaramouche was older than Childe. He was 25 while Childe was 24, so not by much, but their lives were completely different. It was like Scaramouche carried with him an older sense of wisdom than Childe did. Childe had a large body count; he didn't care about romance like that. Scaramouche seemed largely involved with his work; he was very organized and had a keen interest in schedules.
Childe thought it was always cute walking in on him, using highlighters and different pointed pens to create his schedule for the week. Looking down at him as he focused intently on his craft, so much so that Scaramouche wouldn't even notice him staring until Childe spoke up.
There was a gentle flutter in Childe's heart in that silence. He wondered what went through Scaramouche's mind right now. Did he hate him for asking? Did he offend him? Was this truly a sensitive subject for him? He couldn't imagine it. Sex was not a touchy subject for him. But... now he wondered.
"I don't know how you do it. I know you go out a lot and," Scaramouche paused, disgust lingered on his lips. "you smell of it. You smell like the girls. Well. Boys too."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying that you are leaps and bounds beyond what I can possibly imagine. I'm happy that you bring no one home and keep that to yourself, so you have my thanks on that. It's just... I don't know how to talk about any of that. There's no one in my life feeling such a way for."
"What would you say if I felt that way for you?"
Another pause. Childe's heart raced. He didn't know why he said it. He wasn't even thinking about it; it slipped out like nothing. A casual confession out of nowhere. "I-I'm... no... sorry. I didn't mean-"
"Then you're more of an idiot than I thought."
Scaramouche grabbed his cup of ramen and went over to the kitchen. Childe slumped into his chair, placing his arm over his eyes in embarrassment. Why the fuck did I say that? He berated himself over and over.
"I'm going out," Scaramouche called. The sound of keys brushing up against each other rang through the room.
The rest of the days they had together, they refused to even look each other’s way.
. . .
A couple of days after Childe's confession, the tension between the two was startling. Scaramouche couldn't meet with Childe's gaze, the way it looked for approval.
It was different from regular crushes. The typical rejection was not a strange occurrence. It's an entirely different scenario when it comes from the person you live with.
At one point, Childe had got done meeting with an old flame. Nothing happened between the two of them, but he felt a rush of ecstasy when he returned home. When morning came the next day, he was in a rush to get back to work. He forgot all about the silent treatment he and Scaramouche were exchanging as he rushed to go on with the day. He dressed up quickly, got a snack to munch on, and fixed his hair in the mirror. When he walked out the door, he heard someone call out for him.
"Hey! Didn't you forget something?"
Still feeling the happiness rush into his mind, he ran back inside towards the voice. Scaramouche was standing in front of the doorway, waiting for him with a blank, tired glare. He had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. Upon seeing him, Childe kissed his lips without thinking. Scaramouche stepped back, eyes widened, and blushed furiously.
Realizing what he had done, Childe jerked away immediately. They stared at each other for a few moments; Childe's heart dropped with embarrassment. He turned pale. Childe opened his mouth to apologize, but Scaramouche raised his hand along with his keys between his fingers.
"I meant this, but just take it and go."
Childe snatched the keys and rushed off, running as fast as he could towards his car. He was blushing like crazy. Did I really do that? God, I'm an idiot. He stepped on the gas, driving fast and hoping he'd crash so he'd never have to face Scaramouche again.
. . .
Of course, he knew he had to. The shift ended quickly, and as Childe closed up for the night, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled with his keys before reaching down to get it. When he answered, it was his old flame. Her voice was sweet, perhaps too chirpy to most, but she had a seductive side to her that Childe liked enough to ignore it.
"Hey, are you busy tomorrow? Let's hang out again."
Childe thought about what day it was. He thought about Scaramouche. As much as he liked her, he didn't know if he could go on with ignoring him after what happened. He had to make it right before going off again, he felt.
Childe rubbed his hand against his neck. "Ah, sorry... I made plans already for the week. Think we could catch up some other time?"
"Oh."
"I don't have a problem with meeting up again. I just have to-"
"I get it," she said flatly then hung up. Childe couldn't believe it even as he looked down at his phone, reading that the call has ended over and over.
It wasn’t a regular thing for him to get dismissed so easily. In fact, he didn’t know what he did wrong. The winter breeze picked up, knocking into Childe's side with urgency. As if nature itself was telling him to go home already.
As Childe drove home, he tapped nervously against the steering wheel.
. . .
When he got home, it was strangely quiet. The television was off, and the kitchen produced low humming sounds of a home untouched. There was no light on in the living room. However, from the small hallway, there was a little glow coming from below.
It was from Scaramouche’s room.
Childe pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto the couch, walking over to his room while grooming himself to look presentable. When he was at the door, he paused. Why am I bothering to make myself look good?
He shook his head. Never mind. Childe knocked on the door and pressed his ear to it, listening for movement. “Hello? I’m home.”
There was no response.
Childe knocked again; his worries built up within him. He looked down at the light from under the door, looking for a shadow. Maybe Scaramouche was ignoring him. It was possible after what happened earlier.
But there was no movement. There were no sounds of confirmation. Without thinking, Childe impulsively opened the door. The first thing he sees are all the homework pages scattered all throughout the floor. Scaramouche was at his desk, slumped over, his ass just barely at the edge of his chair while it was pushed back, and sleeping heavily. He snored; a side of his face was smooshed against his hand.
Childe blinked. He walked over to him, raising his hand to lightly touch him, but then he glanced over at Scaramouche’s desk. His planner was filled to the brim with plans of work, school, and studying. He realized that the two days he had off were the only two he had for three weeks.
Scaramouche was working himself to exhaustion.
Childe would’ve normally left him alone, putting a blanket over him like usual, but this time he shook him hard. Scaramouche jerked and rubbed his face, shaking off the sleep from his eyes. He groaned. “What the hell-”
“You have to stop.”
When Scaramouche recovered his vision, he traced his eyes over the outlines of Childe’s face. “Stop? Stop what?”
“You’re overworking yourself.”
Scaramouche took a minute to process what was happening; his movements were slow like he was coming out of a drug-induced side effect. He sniffled, pressing his thumb to his nose and shook his head more.
“I am not-”
“Look at you! Look at this!”
Childe snatched Scaramouche’s planner. “12 hour shifts back to back. You open AND close? On the days off work, you choose to do more work with school.”
Scaramouche finally pieced together what Childe was saying, which resulted in him glaring up at him. “Oh great, now you want to lecture me on how I live too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Fischl told me the same shit. I don’t give a shit about what you think. I’m going to do what I want.”
Childe tensed up. Did everyone notice except him? Was he really that out of touch with what Scaramouche was doing? A pang of jealously seeped into Childe suddenly when he thought about who may have tried to help him before. As if they had the headstart on him. He pushed it away. It was a selfish thought.
“Tell me,” Childe began, “the day we were sitting together. When I-”
“When you said something stupid.”
“Sure. Was that… was that your first day off?”
Scaramouche stared at him. Childe had no idea that while he was working, Scaramouche was literally never home. Everyday, he was working. Everyday, he refused rest.
When Scaramouche didn’t answer, Childe sighed heavily. “Scaramouche-”
“Why do you even care? All you do is go to work, fuck randoms out in god knows where and come home to laze off. You don’t ask about me. Never. I don’t ask about you either. So what the fuck does it matter to you now?”
Childe scratched the back of his head, unsure of how to answer. It was true that Childe never really thought about him until recently. He didn’t know what changed about him. What changed how he felt. But when he looked back down to Scaramouche, he just felt it.
Looking over his tired eyes, his limp body from lassitude, just everything about him. Maybe he should’ve noticed sooner. Maybe he should’ve said something sooner. He didn’t know.
“You’re right. I have no right to tell you what to do. But.. I’m just worried. God, I don’t know! I just don’t know. You shouldn’t have to do this to yourself.”
“And you don’t have to fuck people who don’t care about you.” Scaramouche pulled his planner to him, closing it up and tossed it back on the desk. “I know what you say about others. Don’t think I’m stupid enough to believe you don’t do the same to me.”
Childe’s eyes widened. “I don’t say anything about you.”
Scaramouche scoffed. “Get out of my room.”
“Why would you insinuate that at all?”
“I said get out!”
Childe leaned down and grabbed Scaramouche by his shoulders, gripping so tightly that it made Scaramouche let out a small groan. “Don’t. Say. That. I do not talk shit about you. I don’t!”
“Whatever, Childe.”
“It’s not whatever! I like-”
“Don’t you dare say it!”
“I like you!”
“No, you don’t! You just talked yourself into thinking that.”
It was kind of true that his feelings for him were sudden. Scaramouche didn’t do anything spectacular to impress him or even look any different to appeal to him. Yet he guessed that maybe he felt this way because he realized that Scaramouche was always himself around Childe. And he, in turn, didn’t have to be or look a certain way for Scaramouche to care.
Scaramouche didn’t expect anything from him.
“Maybe.”
Scaramouche rolled his eyes, shoving him off then turning his chair back to his desk, where he, yet again, went back to work.
Childe couldn’t think of anything else. He pressed up to him and kissed him once more, as if this was a band-aid over the situation. As if this recovered anything. He waited in those seconds for Scaramouche to hate him. For Scaramouche to pull back and tell him to piss off.
But he didn’t.
Child pulled back; their lips parted. Scaramouche was looking at him blankly. He didn’t look at him with disgust. Childe backed off nervously. He was acting stupid; it wasn’t like him to be so careless. What did it matter anyway? Scaramouche never liked Childe.
“If you’re just looking for sex from me, you’re wasting your time.”
“I’m not.”
“So what? Am I supposed to think you really do like me?”
“I’d like a chance.”
There was a pause. Scaramouche hadn’t moved at all after the kiss, which made Childe feel as though this was really it. Maybe he’ll get up and walk out.
But he didn’t.
Scaramouche sighed and got up from his seat. He still had to look up at him but now he carried himself with a little more formality.
“I’ll make room for you in my schedule then,” he breathed out as if wanting to be inaudible. Childe pulled back slightly, a little shocked.
“Really?”
“Really.”
A smile slowly spread across Childe’s face, dipping his head down with a chuckle and feeling butterflies in his stomach. It was a weird feeling. A different form of happiness than he has ever gotten from others.
“Try not to fuck someone else before then, and maybe I’ll let you kiss me again,” he rolled his eyes, pushing him back again. He waved his hand over his nose. “I can still smell the perfume from the last girl for God’s sake.”
Childe really laughed at that. “I think I can do that,” he smirked. “Might be a bit hard.” Scaramouche smacked him and went back to his desk. He didn’t pick up a pencil, didn’t bother to write anymore. He sat there, pulling up a small wrist cushion and laid his head back down. “I’ll be asleep if you need me. I won't work anymore tonight.”
Childe shook his head, turning away with a small smile on his face before turning his head a little while at the door. “See you soon?”
Scaramouche slightly nodded, not opening his eyes but letting out the softest sigh that Childe had ever heard. “See you soon.”